Thanks to this series of developments, I now have a new appreciation of what women go through. I sympathize. And, for obvious physical reasons, my test was certainly not as rigorous as it would be for a female. I guess I can cross this experience off my bucket list.
So how does this all start? Pages and years flip off the calendar. We go back to 1995 and I'm still living in New York. A routine examination by my then-internist reveals I've got a below-the-skin cyst right under the right...ahem...nipple. The decision was made to remove it surgically. As a result, this was the very first time I ever went under with anesthesia.
No fuss, no muss. The scar healed. Off we go.
Flashing forward to 2018. I'm at the gym with my trainer. I am lying on my stomach on the massage table as he is working on my back. I feel like my upper chest is on top of a small marble. I feel a little lump underneath the right...ahem...nipple. Hmmm. It wasn't particularly hard, but it was noticeable. Except, by the time I got home, it disappeared. Presto change-o.
And then it came back. And then it disappeared. And then it came back. And then it disappeared. After about a week of this nifty party trick, I decided to seek medical counsel.
Of course, my first choice is the one I usually advise people against. Using Google.
As per usual, typing your symptoms into any search engine is deadly. Whatever it is that you input, the response will be "you have cancer and you will be dead in a week." My mistake.
I called my crackerjack LA internist and got his equally crackerjack assistant. When I told her what was going on, it was like she had been spying over my shoulder.
"You didn't Google this, did you?"
Um, yeah.
I was invited in the next day for a session with my doctor. He is as thorough as can be and I first shared with him the surgery from 1995.
"You told me about that fifteen years ago when we first connected."
Oh.
But, to understand it all, he needed to examine me. Both sides. With both hands. I'm not sure but I think he was at second base. I forget. Those groping barometers change over time.
Well, he assured me that the cancer odds were even greater than those for me to hit the lotto. It could be scar tissue. Or something forming due to low testosterone. Or a myriad of other reasons. He told me that, in 15 years of practice, he's seen this about twenty times which averages to more than once a year. I told him I've been diligent about following up on male-centric ailments. I ask if I have to expand my scope.
Well, to check on the testosterone theory, he orders a blood test.
"And, just to be sure, you probably need an X-ray."
Oh. I asked for details. As he prattled on, I stopped him. Wait. What you're describing is a mammogram.
"Well, yes."
Two days later, I had an appointment at the Margie Petersen Breast Center of St. John's Hospital in Santa Monica. While I felt there were female eyes all descending upon me, they probably didn't give a shit about the lone guy within three miles in a waiting room where there certainly weren't any Sports Illustrateds in the magazine racks.
Luckily, I got called in by my technician before I had a chance to crawl into a fetal position underneath the coffee table.
Unluckily, my technician reminded me of my elementary school nurse. Or one of my mom's friends at the PTA. Translation: she was likely one of the more senior members at the staff of the Margie Petersen Breast Center.
"Take off your shirt please."
Yes, Ma'am.
For some reason, she applied some pink tape underneath my right...ahem...nipple. It looked like I had fallen into a wad of bubble gum at the beach. Then she moved me over to the machine shown above. And then hilarity really ensued.
Now while I don't think my upper body will ever be confused with that of Ryan Gosling's, but eight years of training has resulted in some more muscles and toning in my upper chest. Yet she had to get something onto that machine for pictures. She started squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. Hello? How much juice do you want to get from this lemon?
"Is this area tender?"
Well, it is now that your monkey wrench-like hands have been mangling me for the past five minutes.
At last, she was done and I made a mental note to remember this moment while saying "grace" at my Thanksgiving dinner.
"You can put your shirt back on."
She left to go get my x-rays and also to probably wrestle an alligator in the hallway. Ten minutes later, she was back with a doctor who was even older than the technician. Jeez, there's going to be one retirement luncheon after another here at the Margie Petersen Breast Center.
"Can you take your shirt off please?"
Wow, even male prostitutes get a longer coffee break.
The doctor did her own share of groping and squeezing. Meanwhile, the bubble gum tape was starting to pull on my chest hairs. I realized that taking that off at home would probably suck up five hours of my day.
"Well, we see nothing there. But we might want to schedule an ultrasound."
Here we go, I thought. The money meter gets turned on. Ka-ching, ka-ching.
I told the kindly folks to send all the results over to my doctor. If he thinks I need an ultrasound, it's his call.
One day later, he called.
"You don't need an ultrasound."
Phew.
I asked for the official diagnosis of it all. Well, it's probably some scar tissue from the previous surgery. Or something else. It's not serious.
I'll take the good news. And then smiled. Not only can I share an experience with some of my female pals, I probably would get a nifty blog entry out of it all.
Um, see above.
At the same time, the silliness I went through is in no way meant to demean the seriousness of this deadly disease. I know women who have faced the battle and won. I know women who faced the battle and ultimately lost. After last week, I made a note to make another contribution to Susan G. Koman.
I guess the lesson is simple. If you feel something, say something. Heck, even I did.
Dinner last night: Chicken sausage, rice, and broccoli.
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